


Smoke and Mirrors

by dzzyondreams



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mirrors, Voyeurism, also ish, cross-dressing, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dzzyondreams/pseuds/dzzyondreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You look good,” Patrick says, appearing in the doorway to interrupt Pete’s one-on-one with the mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke and Mirrors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whatimages](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatimages/gifts).



> This was written for two reasons, the biggest of which is that today is [whatimages](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whatimages/pseuds/whatimages) birthday--hope it is a fab one, bb! <3 The other reason has something to do with, like, [this bullshit](http://www.gannett-cdn.com/-mm-/d64f9fda286ec2a43f283aac02f24ef049829be6/c=98-0-3739-2736&r=x383&c=540x380/local/-/media/USATODAY/GenericImages/2013/11/13//1384387472000-XXX-VICTORIA-S-SECRET-eb4013.jpg), because what's a girl to do.
> 
> Thanks to girlpearl for the wonderful beta!

“You look good,” Patrick says, appearing in the doorway to interrupt Pete’s one-on-one with the mirror.  Or not interrupt, maybe—because rather than offering up some snarky response or telling Pete that it’s time to go, Patrick just stays where he is and waits for Pete to answer.  

“Yeah?” he asks.  “I could go with the other one still.  Nothing’s set in stone.”

Patrick pushes off the door frame and steps fully into the room.  He’s in a tee, loose jeans, and tennis shoes: ideal dress for a day with a stylist who’s been shoving outfits toward them while staying vague on whether they’re supposed to look ridiculous or not.  “You could,” he says.  “Do you want to?”

Pete shrugs and smooths the fabric over his legs.  They look more bare than normal, though when he wears shorts, it’s not like they cover more.  “You don’t think this is…just him laughing at me?”  Pete doesn’t turn around to face Patrick when he says it, but he can see Patrick approaching in the mirror.

“No,” says Patrick, “and even if he’s trying to, what the fuck does he matter?”

Pete shrugs.  “He’s a fashion designer for a pretty big company, dude.  I think he matters.”

“Hm.”  Patrick ghosts his hand over the back of Pete’s; he’s too proper even to hold hands in public except when Pete’s quick enough to grab him before he can move away.  “Well, it’s your choice.”  

“So you think I shouldn’t wear it,” says Pete.  If he moves his hips side to side, the fabric swishes across his knees.  

“Not if it makes you uncomfortable.”  

Pete rolls the words over in his head, trying to look for a hidden meaning in them.  Patrick’s usually all for being straightforward, but even he has his cryptic moments.  “Define uncomfortable,” Pete says, at last.

For a moment, Pete thinks Patrick is going to give up on him and leave.  He’s not even deliberately being difficult this time, it’s just that sometimes that’s who he is.  Pete Wentz, difficulty embodied.  He can’t win the war because he’d just be fighting it against himself.

“I guess that’s up to you,” Patrick says.  “Do you like it?”

“Yeah.”  Pete bites his lip.  “Do you?”

“Yes.”  Patrick’s answer is so quick, so absolute, that Pete wonders if it was rehearsed.  He’s done that before—planned something out to sound all nice and natural, but the moment he gets a chance to say it it’s a jumbled mess.  “Hey,” says Patrick, reading Pete’s mind (or his face).  “I’m not messing with you, okay?  It—you look damn hot in it.”  

Pete loves the faint flush of color that this sort of thing still brings to Patrick’s face even though they’re well past their first time, or even their fiftieth.  “Ooh,” he teases, “so you came here with ulterior motives.”

“I actually came here because my boyfriend wasn’t with the rest of us and I wanted to leave,” says Patrick.  “But I can work with this.”

“Yeah?”  Pete’s hopeless at playing it cool because every damn time Patrick includes him in _home_ or refers to Pete as his _boyfriend_ or hell, even says _take your damn trash with you, Pete, this is a car and not your personal Starbucks cup graveyard_ he wants to smile too much to make it seem like he really doesn’t care.  He’s gotten used to not having the upper hand, but only because Patrick never seems to have it either.  Pete takes it as a sign, as proof of how well-matched they are.  “Hey, aren’t you going to ask if I’m wearing anything underneath?”

“You better be,” says Patrick.  “It’s not your kilt and not everyone wants to know that your dick has been in contact with literally everything they own.”

“Do you want to know that, Patrick?” Pete teases.  “I don’t think I’ve gotten your Mac yet…”

“Ew, no,” says Patrick.  “What the hell is wrong with you.”  He glances toward the door, no doubt making sure that they haven’t gained an audience.  Since Patrick’s the only one here with him, Pete assumes the other guys have left already, or else they’re waiting a few rooms down.  Frankly, if they haven’t learned by now to keep their distance and always text first, there’s probably no helping them.

Pete shrugs, shameless.  “You brought it up,” he says.  “It’s okay, I don’t know how I’d feel if you wanted someone else’s dick touching your laptop.”  

“You’d be a jealous asshole, probably,” says Patrick.  “So I guess it’s a good thing I don’t want that.  Ever.  Uh, not to rush you, but maybe you can finish making this decision elsewhere?”  He edges toward the door.

Pete turns back to the mirror and swishes back and forth again.  He could do as Patrick asked and go back to the hotel and probably (from the tone of voice Patrick is using) get laid pretty well.  It’s a good deal—tempting, really.  It’s just that he also wants to decide on this before he leaves, and Patrick isn’t giving him any easy answers.

“Our mirror isn’t as good as this one,” he says, petulantly.  The suite they’ve been put in actually has a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, but Patrick might not have noticed.

“Jesus,” says Patrick.  “Pete.  Come on.”  

“Do you think I can do a high jump in it without flashing everyone?” Pete asks, to stall.  “Do you think if I wear it for real I should go with nothing underneath?”

“Not unless you want upskirts all over the internet,” Patrick says.  Pete’s about to say that worse things have happened when Patrick, apparently anticipating his train of thought, revises with, “I thought we agreed that pictures of your dick went against the band’s image.”  

“But if it’s just my legs?  I have nice legs, right?”  Pete points his toe and attempts a _battement tendu_ ; the combat boots and heavy fabric of the kilt somewhat ruin his attempt at grace.  Patrick’s eyes still slide over him appreciatively, though, so that’s something.  He doesn’t laugh at the thud Pete’s boot makes when it connects with the floor again, either.  

“They’re great,” says Patrick.  “Everyone will love them.  Are you done?”  

“Dude,” says Pete.  “I am trying to make a choice here.  A—potentially _life-changing_ decision.  You, of all people, should understand—“

Pete’s so engrossed in stalling that he doesn’t realize Patrick is behind him until he’s there, arms wrapped around Pete, chin on Pete’s shoulder even though it’s mildly uncomfortable when you’re the shorter person in the relationship, according to Patrick.  “Hey.”  Patrick shimmies his hips, flush against Pete’s ass, and Pete suddenly understands his urgency.  “You look great.  Everyone will love it.  Can we _please_ get out of here.”

The thing about Patrick is: when Pete wants something in bed—really wants it, not just thinks it might be interesting to try out—he’s pretty willing to go along with it.  There’s only one thing Pete’s found that Patrick refuses straight-up, and that’s any show of affection onstage.  From him, at least; he can’t stop Pete from innocent cheek kisses and not-so-innocent neck-kisses as long as Pete doesn’t actually mess him up.  Pete doesn’t, because Pete _likes_ being able to let the whole fucking world know that he’s in love with Patrick Stump and that Patrick Stump loves him back just enough to be kissed onstage.  Pete’s kind of given up on ever getting anything more in that vein, and besides, it’s not like they actually are in need of more ways to spice up their sex life at the moment.  But he’s also an opportunist, and since there’s no one around, Patrick technically can’t use his argument of _Pete we said we weren’t going to do that_ and then calmly defuse the situation.  

“Wow, you do like it, don’t you?” Pete says.  “You sure I should go through with it?  I’d hate to be a distraction up there on stage.”

“You’re always a distraction onstage,” says Patrick.  “You try to be a distraction on stage, don’t act like you don’t.”  

“Not like this, though,” says Pete.  “What would you do if I played the show wearing just this?”  He grinds backward into Patrick as he says it to emphasize his point.  “Think you could make it knowing how hard I was for you?  I bet the fabric is thick enough that no one else would be able to see it but you know me too well.”

“Jesus Christ,” says Patrick, hands slipping from around Pete’s waist.  For a second Pete thinks he’s gone too far and that Patrick’s about to storm out and make Pete sleep on the couch that night.  When the door slams, though, Patrick is still on the right side of it, twisting the lock before walking back over to Pete.  

Since they’re now officially alone, there’s no need for Pete to be subtle; he pulls Patrick in and kisses him hard, grinding into him.  Pete’s so keyed up that it’s not going to take long and from the look of things, Patrick is right there with him.  Pete trails his fingers slowly down Patrick’s spine and scrapes his teeth over the skin right below Patrick’s ear, the way he likes.  

“Fuck,” Patrick gasps, bucking into him.  “Fuck, Pete, hang on.”  Pete doesn’t want to hang on and wouldn’t listen at all except Patrick is pushing at his shirt, which seems like an awfully good idea.

“You too?” he asks, after pulling the shirt off and tossing it to the side.  He hears it land in a heap on the floor and maybe he should care because it’s not technically his shirt, but he has more important things on his mind at the moment.  A lot of them have to do with Patrick’s marked lack of nudity.

“Maybe later,” Patrick says, reaching for Pete’s belt.  

“Hey, c’mon,” Pete says.  “I did.”

“Hey c’mon yourself,” Patrick says without even looking up.  “Why are there two belts on this thing?”  

Pete’s mildly irritated that Patrick is acting all calm and collected right now and not like he’s desperate to get into Pete’s pants—kilt—whatever.  Like he’s not desperate for Pete the way Pete’s desperate for him.  It’s easy to solve the problem by tilting Patrick’s head up again so they can make out some more—Pete knows he’s succeeded when Patrick gives up on the second belt and moans, tugging Pete’s hips sharply toward his.  It’s not a good enough angle but Pete doesn’t want to stop and readjust because it’s better than nothing.  He likes the way Patrick’s hands shape the fabric around his ass, besides; it’s a foreign feeling, but definitely a good one.  Pete would therefore be pretty okay with carrying on like this (at least for a few more minutes), but Patrick’s hands start scrabbling at Pete’s waistband.

“How the fuck,” says Patrick, pulling back in frustration, “does this thing work.”

It’s a testament to Pete’s awesome boyfriend skills that he doesn’t laugh at Patrick’s frustration—well, it’s that and also a sign of the fact that he wants to get laid.  But, he reminds himself, Patrick wasn’t here when Pete put the kilt on (and he shivers just thinking of what Patrick’s face would have shown if he had been, if he’d looked over as Pete fastened it up), and Pete had a stylist in the room to help him.  “It buckles,” he says.  “On the sides, here.”  

His hand moves to a buckle, but Patrick covers it with his own before he can undo it.  “Let me?” he asks.  

Pete nods and pulls back, waiting for Patrick to yank the whole thing off, but Patrick doesn’t.  His hands are light and deft as they always are, but instead of unwrapping Pete, he merely loosens the kilt and leaves it hanging on Pete’s hips.  “I thought we were gonna…” says Pete, trailing off.  

Patrick kisses him lightly.  “Trust me?”

Pete nods.  

“Good.”  Patrick steps back as if to admire his handiwork.  “God, Pete.”  

Pete glances up at the mirror to see what Patrick’s seeing.  He already looks debauched, his mouth swollen and the remnants of yesterday’s bruises making a line down his rib cage.  Loosened by Patrick’s hand, the kilt has slid down just a bit lower than Pete wears his pants.  Pete thinks, only half-lucidly, that he probably shouldn’t be wearing boots but it doesn’t matter because Patrick still wants him—wants him _like this_ —so he doesn’t bring it up.  

“Yeah,” says Patrick, and Pete looks over to where he’s watching Pete stare.  “That’s why.”  Pete likes the little smile on Patrick’s lips because it means he has a plan.  It also means that he’s barely gotten started.  

“You look good,” Patrick says, an echo of his words from earlier.  He walks around Pete, a slow semicircle, admiring.  Pete wills his pulse to stop rushing and fails utterly.  “So good.”  As if he knows Pete’s struggling, he stops with his from-a-distance thing and kisses the back of Pete’s neck, wrapping his arm around Pete so his hand rests on Pete’s belly.  “And you like to look at yourself, so that’s good, too.”  

Without warning, Patrick slides his hand down into Pete’s kilt and cups him through his briefs.  “Fuck,” Pete says, instinctively bucking into Patrick’s touch.  Patrick just kisses the back of his neck again and bites down lightly; Pete knows he’ll be careful to not leave a mark because they do have a show in two days.  Not that Pete would mind, but Patrick’s too conscientious to not.  

“Like that?” Patrick asks, running his fingers teasingly up Pete’s length.  

“More,” says Pete.  “Touch me, please.”  He doesn’t quite expect Patrick to listen because Patrick usually makes him wait, but there’s an urgency in Patrick today.  Instead of continuing the slow tease, Patrick nips at the back of Pete’s neck again before he works his hand into the elastic waistband of Pete’s briefs and gets his hand on Pete’s dick.  Pete can’t help the moan that falls from his lips.  Patrick’s hand wraps around him, gentle and firm at once as he strokes Pete as well as he can under all the layers.  Pete does his best to help, thrusting into Patrick’s hand and then pressing back against his erection just to hear Patrick gasp.  It’s still not enough and either Patrick can read Pete’s mind or he’s getting desperate himself because he uses his other hand to create some space between Pete’s briefs and his skin.  

Pete looks obscene when he glances into the mirror, sweat beading along his hairline and shining on his neck and both of Patrick’s hands down his kilt.  The weight of them has pushed it down just enough that Pete can see the tip of his dick poking above the fabric, and every once in a while he catches a glimpse of Patrick’s fingers as Patrick works him over.  “You’re so hot,” Patrick keeps saying, “look so good,” and Pete can’t help but chime in with “oh” and “fuck” and “needyouwantyouloveyou” from his end.  He tries to twist around so he can kiss Patrick more, but Patrick dodges adeptly without even losing his rhythm.  “No,” he says, “want you to watch.”

So Pete does.  He watches Patrick’s hand move, faster now, under the fabric; he watches his hips jerking with a movement he’s not quite in control of anymore; he watches Patrick watching him like he wants to commit every detail to memory; and he watches the way his mouth falls open as he spills his orgasm all over Patrick’s hand.  Patrick strokes him through it, using his clean hand to tuck Pete back in his briefs while Pete tries to remember how the English language works.  The sight of his come dripping slowly off Patrick’s hand doesn’t really help matters.  

It takes Pete a second to realize he can solve that problem himself.  Patrick doesn’t resist when Pete lifts his arm, but gasps in surprise when Pete licks a slow trail up his wrist.  Each new touch of Pete’s tongue brings another gasp.  Pete doesn’t think that Patrick means to grind into him; at this point, he’s probably close even though Pete hasn’t gotten to lay a hand on him.  Pete’s about to flip around and drop to his knees when Patrick claims his hand back and takes a slow, shuddering breath.  

“We should get cleaned up,” Patrick says, like that wasn’t what Pete was just doing.  

Then again, Pete’s stomach is still a mess too, and it’s not like Pete can take care of that on his own.  “My shirt,” he says.  

“Hmm?”  Patrick looks over at the one Pete had pulled off earlier and chucked on the floor.

“That I wore here,” Pete clarifies.  “It’s…over there, you can use it to…”

“Yeah,” says Patrick, relinquishing his hold on Pete.  Pete immediately wants to take it back.  “I didn’t really think that through.”  Pete doesn’t mind being somewhat of a mess himself, but he has a feeling Patrick just broke one of the rules he always sets for them without Pete knowing, maybe _no jizz on clothes that aren’t technically ours_.  Whatever, Pete’s going to keep the kilt, and not just to save Patrick a stuttering attempt at explanation.  He thinks he might want to wait to mention that part, though, because there’s no way he can go again right now.

Patrick gets back with the shirt and carefully wipes Pete off with it, venturing under his waistline once again.  “Sorry,” he says, though it’s hardly the first shirt Pete’s sacrificed to the cause.  

Pete shrugs.  “Hey,” he says, “want me to blow you?”  He reaches for Patrick, but Patrick crouches down and looks contemplatively at the mess on Pete’s kilt.  It’s not as bad as it could be, but there are definitely a few drops of come that stand out against the black.  Pete doesn’t really care about that, so he drops to his knees.

“Dude,” he says, running a hand up Patrick’s thigh.  Patrick intercepts it before it gets very far and twines their fingers together.  

“Yeah?”

“I want to,” says Pete.  “Can I?”

Patrick leans forward and kisses him softly, a light press of lips that still knocks something loose inside of Pete.  It’s this constant shattering, and the corresponding wholeness that Patrick’s touch invokes, that he can’t get enough of.  “I guess,” Patrick says, between kisses, “if that’s what you want.”  

Pete huffs out a breath.  “I want you to want.”

“Well,” says Patrick, “I was going to ask if you wanted to go back to the hotel so I could fuck you until you scream.”  The way Patrick says it, all calm and casual, is just another nail in Pete’s coffin.  “But if you wanted to blow me, you know how much I love your mouth.”

“I’ll wait,” says Pete, hastily.  He climbs to his feet, still a bit unsteady, and pulls at the buckles until the kilt drops to the floor.

“Pete, you—I hope that didn’t just make more of a mess of it.”  Patrick prods at the pile of fabric.  

“I’ll say it’s part of the style,” Pete says, kicking off his boots as he tries to remember where he’d put his jeans earlier.  The room isn’t that large, so they must be—there, on the couch; he pulls them on and only has a second of confusion about how tight they are around his legs.  “You know, I bet I could sell that for like, a million dollars on eBay.”

“You don’t need a million dollars,” says Patrick.  “And you couldn’t, anyway.”

“I dunno, Pete Wentz jizz stains have to have some price,” says Pete.  “Hey, you know what would go for more, if I stole a pair of your underwear and put them up for auction.”

“I would bid our combined savings,” says Patrick.  “And then make you take it down.”

“Might not be enough,” Pete says.  “I’m sure there’s someone out there who would pay a ton to own something that had touched your ass.”  He grabs the shirt that’s part of his performance outfit off the ground and pulls it over his head.  

“And you want to be able to touch my ass, ever again?” Patrick asks.  Pete jams his foot in his boot and looks around for the other; Patrick grabs it from behind the couch and chucks it toward him.

“We could do it for charity,” Pete says.  Patrick doesn’t look convinced.  “Or we could forget that idea and go back to the hotel and do that thing you mentioned.”

“Good plan,” says Patrick.  “You about ready?”

Pete checks: shoes, wallet, hoodie, and Patrick has his shirt, but the kilt is still laying in a pile on the floor.  He grabs it and folds it over his arm.  “Still sure you can handle this tomorrow?” Pete asks.  “I think if we walk out with it, I have to wear it.”

“I think we already made that decision,” Patrick says.  “I’m sure I’ll find a way to deal.”  

“You know, now that I have to take it anyway, I could go with nothing under it,” says Pete.  “Just something for you to consider.”

“How about we save that for home sometime,” says Patrick.  He doesn’t trip over the words like Pete might; Pete still can’t refer to Patrick’s place as _home_ even though he’s all but moved in.  Part of him wonders if he’ll ever stop thinking he’s not enough for Patrick, but Patrick, who knows him better than anyone, is pretty good at keeping that part in check.  

“Yeah,” says Pete.  “Yeah, deal.  Hey, after you fuck me we should totally get room service.  Fish and chips!”  It’s only because Patrick cuts him off that he doesn’t launch into his best British accent.  

“Romance is dead,” says Patrick, walking toward the door, “and you killed it.”  Pete can’t see Patrick’s smile, but he can hear it in his voice.

“Room service is totally sexy,” Pete says.  “There’s definitely some porn that starts that way, or something.”

“You’re not making a very good case,” Patrick says.  Still, when Pete catches up to him, Patrick lets them hold hands all the way down the hallway.  It’s dreary and rainy outside and Pete wishes that they were back in sunny L.A., or even better, the actual winter of Chicago.  Patrick just flips his hood up and opens the door.  “We’ll have to get a taxi,” he says over his shoulder, “since the other guys took the car.”  

At some point, the thought of going off unchaperoned in London would have been too much for Pete to resist, but now he’s content to slide into the back of the cab Patrick’s flagged down and let Patrick tell the driver where they’re staying.  He’s gotten old when he wasn’t looking, or maybe this is just what it means to settle down.  

“Hey,” he says, sitting at the closest distance Patrick has deemed appropriate while in public, “Patrick, you’re pretty okay, you know?”

Patrick shifts his hand half a millimeter so he can lace their fingers together.  “Yeah,” he says, and Pete knows he means something between _it’s okay_ and _you’re welcome_.  “You’re pretty okay too.”  Pete feels his cheek flush under the press of Patrick’s lips and stares out the window so he doesn’t have to try to answer the smug smile that Patrick must be wearing.  He feels Patrick’s eyes on him the whole ride back to the hotel. 


End file.
